


From the Beginning

by SeptemberSky



Series: Silver Linings [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Daud being a dad, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, I'm not that mean, Low Chaos Daud (Dishonored), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, nothing too too rough here don't worry, sad backstories everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberSky/pseuds/SeptemberSky
Summary: In which Daud meets his Whalers for the first time (they all had to come from somewhere).Companion piece toThe Potential Merits of Criminal Organizations, a series of loosely connected oneshots that can be read in any order, but might make more sense if you readPotential Meritsfirst.





	1. Montgomery—1823

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing very fast and loose with medicine here, so if I got something terribly wrong, I apologize.

_Wham!_

Florence jerked sharply, almost spilling her tea.  She carefully set it on the table, willing her now-racing heart to slow down.  There was another noise, a sort of clang, that echoed out of the alley and up to her window.  She rose to investigate, drew back the window shade, and peered out.

There was a man wearing a red jacket floundering around in the alley, struggling to stand.  Florence watched as he braced himself against the dumpster and tried to straighten up, only to lose his balance and slither downward.  He held his right arm close to his chest, as though it was injured somehow.

She had no idea who this man was or how he had come to be in her alley, but he was clearly hurt. 

She hurried downstairs, pulling her jacket on over her cardigan.  Her hand hovered over her truncheon (at times, an unfortunate necessity in her line of work) before leaving it be.  The man looked to be in no shape to truly fight back, and if worst came to worst, she could just bar the door and leave him to sort himself out on his own.

She opened the door and approached the man with caution.  He’d given up trying to stand and was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back.  When he heard her footsteps, he jerked his chin down and stared at her in suspicion. 

He was young, in his twenties if she had to guess, and clean-shaven.  His hair looked like it was meant to be very tidy but stuck in every direction. 

“Who’re you?”

“I’m a doctor.”  She left out the _almost_. 

 “Absolutely not.”  He shook his head, trying to stand and again failing.  When he uncurled, she saw the very alarming slick of blood staining the front of his clothes.

“What do you think you’re _doing?_ ”  She strode over to him and knelt at his side, forcing him to stay still so she could try to see what was wrong.  All his layers were in the way but judging by the size of the stain and his waxen pallor, he’d lost a goodly quantity of blood. 

He snarled and tried to push her away, but she caught his wrist.  “Listen to me.  You are hurt, badly.  If you leave, you’ll be dead in an hour.  _Let me help you_.”

An hour to live was an exaggeration—whatever injury he had was bleeding sluggishly, but Florence could just imagine him staggering off into the night and getting killed in some fashion.  Barring that, there was always the chance of infection setting in, and that would be a completely different kind of catastrophe.

His eyes widened, the bruise-like shadows under them making him look a bit like a startled racoon, and he stopped fighting her.  Thank the stars.  She wound his uninjured arm around her shoulders.  “Up on three,” she said.  “One, two—” 

They _heaved_ and made it upright.  One of the man’s legs buckled—no wonder he’d had so much trouble standing up.  He hissed through clenched teeth, leaning heavily on her.  Florence felt like she was trying to hold up a horse. 

Somehow, they made it inside and up to the second floor, both of them breathing like they’d just run a mile up a mountain. 

“Turn,” she panted, directing him toward what was supposed to be the kitchen.  Instead of the usual elements, she’d put in an examination table, and the cabinets were full of everything she could possibly need to treat her patients. 

“Sit down,” she said.  He obliged without complaint, and she straightened, wincing when her back resisted.  The man was _heavy_.  “What hurts?” 

“This.”  He gestured at the bloodstain.  _No shit_ , Florence thought.  “Arm.  Knee.” 

Nothing for it, then.  “All this has to come off,” she said, already unbuckling the heavy belt slung around his chest.  He scowled but did not protest.  She struggled to get his coat off, wishing it wasn’t so sturdy.  Her scissors likely wouldn’t put a dent in it.  The shirt didn’t survive—she cut it to ribbons.

The man had an impressive collection of scars, some old, some new.  Most looked like they hadn’t been treated well, if at all.  Just as he’d said, his right knee and wrist were bruised and starting to swell.  But those could wait. 

“Lie down.”  As he gazed up at the ceiling, she gathered her supplies.  Antiseptic, gauze, local, catgut, needle, ether.  She loaded everything on a tray table and sent it rolling over toward him with a clatter. 

As she cleaned him up, the injury on his belly started to look suspiciously like a stab wound.  But given the location, and the angle… he’d either been very lucky indeed, or his attacker _wanted_ to send him away bleeding like a stuck pig—not unheard of, Dunwall’s gangs had a distinctly gruesome idea of what constituted “sport”—but nevertheless, she started to wonder just who she was working on. 

He was tough as nails though, Florence had to give him that.  He hardly made a sound as she worked, just clenched his fists and set his jaw and bore it.  Everyone had limits though, so she wet a rag with ether.

She turned back around to find he’d been watching her, glaring at the rag.  “I don’t want it.”

She frowned at him.  “Yes, you do.” 

“No.”

“I’m not patching you up like a shirt, I’m about to do _minor surgery_.”  Of course, he had to go and get stubborn now. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

She sighed.  Best meet him halfway then.  “Alright.  I’ll use the local.  But you can’t complain if it hurts.” 

That must have been the right answer, because he eased back onto the table.  She filled a syringe and numbed him thoroughly and set to work on the stitches, humming all the while. 

When she finished, she popped her neck and stretched, glancing at the clock.  It was half past nine, so if she gave him a dose of morphine soon, he wouldn’t need another until morning, when she could check his bandage and see how everything was coming along. 

Convenient. 

“Are you done?” 

“Hm?  Oh, yes.”  She crossed the room to wash her hands again and saw his reflection in the window sit up and smooth his hair back, groaning.  “Stay _still_ ,” she said, hurrying to finish. 

“I’m fine,” he groused, getting off the table to stand very carefully with his weight on one leg.  Then he yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop. 

“Oh no, none of that.  You were stabbed,” she said, again looping his arm around her shoulders.  “Stay long enough to let me make sure that heals well.”  

She steered him down the hall to one of the bedrooms.  He settled into the bed, and she went back to the kitchen to fetch the morphine.  When she returned, she discovered he was already asleep.  He didn’t even stir when she slid the needle into his arm.

* * *

The next morning, Florence fixed her tea and ventured downstairs to check on her patient. 

_“What do you think you’re doing?”_

There he was, headed down the hall like there was nothing abnormal about going for a walk in one’s underthings the morning after being ruddy well  _stabbed_.  He turned around when she spoke. 

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Never mind that, you need to _rest_ , you’ll rip your stitches out!”  She flapped a hand in his general direction.  “Get back in bed!”

“I’m being careful,” he said, heedless of her dismay.  “Besides, it looks fine.”  He yanked the bandage off aggressively enough to make her wince. 

And it did look fine—better than fine.  It should have been swollen and angry, but there was hardly any inflammation. 

 _Bizarre_ , Florence thought, but she couldn’t justifiably keep him on bed rest like that, so she said, “End of the hall,” and marveled at him as he went.  It shouldn’t be possible.

After his morning ablutions, she wrangled him into some compression bandages (his wrist and knee still weren’t quite right) despite heavy protest and gave him some breakfast.  After two helpings, he fell back asleep.  He spent the better part of two days like that—rising at times to ask for food, or water, or to relieve himself before going back to bed. 

It was on the evening of what would have been his second full day there that Florence went to check on him, only to discover his bed was empty and straightened up, his clothes were gone, and a very large pile of money had been left on the table. 

It was enough to run the clinic for a month.  She stared at it, again wondering who she’d taken care of.

Like a stray cat, the man kept showing up at her back door with some new injury every time, and every time he vanished far before he should have, leaving an exorbitant sum behind.  Over time, they grew to be—she wouldn’t call it friends, exactly—but they knew each other rather well, enough to have good conversations.  He even fixed a troublesome plumbing issue for her, and she patched his clothes at times, using the same stitches she put in his skin.

Perhaps _friends_ was the word. 

A year after he first showed up, the knocking held a particularly frantic cadence.  Florence hurried downstairs, wondering what the matter was, and opened the door.

“Oh, stars,” she said.

He stood there with one hand pressed to his face, over his right eye, blood seeping from the nasty slice that ran from his forehead to his neck, petering out by his collar.  He was breathing quickly, his other eye wide and frightened.

“Come in, come in,” she said.  “How long?”

“I don’t know.  I came as quickly as I could.” 

“What about your eye?”  She couldn’t treat _eyes_ here, those were entirely too delicate for her little clinic, and she knew he’d never agree to go to a proper hospital.  Dread curdled in her stomach.

“ _I don’t know_ , my whole fucking face hurts.”  His voice was starting to hold a note of hysteria. 

“Alright, you’re alright,” she said, steering him toward the room that had at some point become his.  “Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.”

She gathered her things (needle, catgut, ether, local, lantern, magnifying glass), hoping against hope she would be able to piece him back together this time.  She returned to find he hadn’t moved a muscle, tense and shaking slightly.

“Lie back, _don’t_ worry about the sheets,” she said, when he tried to take his boots off out of habit.  “I have to put you under.” 

“But—”

“Daud, you will not be able to stay still enough for me to work unless I do.  I know you don’t like it, but I have to.”  She gripped his forearm, hoping that would steady him a bit.  “Trust me.”

He took one deep breath, then another.  “Alright.” 

Florence doused a rag with ether and passed it under his nose a couple of times to get him used to the smell.  “Breathe,” she told him, bringing it up to his face, smoothing her other hand over his hair.  He breathed, and went slack and boneless moments later. 

First things first.  She crossed to his other side and moved his hand, and with all the blood smeared around, couldn’t determine anything.  Heart in her throat, she carefully eased his eyelid back—

—to find one perfectly intact, if irritated, grey eye.  She sagged in relief. 

“You’re a lucky one, Daud,” she whispered, turning on her lantern and adjusting the magnifier.  She cleaned the skin, numbed him, threaded her smallest needle, and settled in.  It was going to take a while.

Hours later, done at last, she dragged a chair to his bedside.  She collapsed into it, shoulders tight and aching from staying hunched over for so long, with so few breaks, and closed her eyes for just a moment.

She was wakened by a loud sniff and a very bright sunbeam that happened to be shining directly in her eyes.  Daud groaned and tried to sit up.

“Easy, easy,” she said, helping him keep everything in alignment. 

“Fuck,” he said with feeling, gingerly touching the bandages, and froze.  “What about—”

“Your eye is fine.  In perfect working order.”  She stretched.  That chair was not meant for sleeping. 

He relaxed very briefly, then turned to her and ground out, “How do you know my name?”

“I’m very clever.”  He scowled at her with the visible half of his face.  “Yes, yes, you’re a horrific sight.  I quake before you.  _Honestly_ ,” she said, scowling right back, “a man in a whaling uniform shows up at my clinic with an incredible variety of injuries for months on end, and I put the pieces together.  If it makes you feel any better, I won’t be turning you in.”

“Why not?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this place,” she said, gesturing broadly at the room, “does its best to look like a vacant apartment.  I’m operating outside the law as well, handing you over would do me no favors.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I never finished my degree.”  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.  “I had to leave during my last semester, and, as such, am practicing medicine without a license.” 

He grunted. 

“Let me get you some breakfast,” she said, bone-tired despite the early hour.  

Daud left before the end of the day.  Florence didn’t see him again for months.

* * *

She was just sitting down to dinner when someone started pounding at the door.  She sighed, looking forlornly at her blood ox and peas.  It was probably going to get cold. 

Whoever it was just kept on knocking, so she went downstairs, swearing to herself that if it was another Bottle Street boy with a blasted _burn_ , she was going to bar the door and move out the next day. 

She flung the door open and blinked.  “Daud.”

Only it wasn’t just him this time, he had a companion—a kid with curly blonde hair who promptly doubled over to cough violently. 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Daud said.  “He’s only been getting worse, and he coughed so hard he vomited earlier.” 

“Come in.  What’s your name?”

“Thomas,” he croaked, sounding thoroughly miserable. 

“Right this way, Thomas, and sit on the table,” she said, and asked Daud, “Has he only been coughing, or is there anything else?”

“It was a cold a week ago, turned into this.”  He was practically radiating worry. 

“Did he have much drainage?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Thomas called emphatically, and coughed again. 

Florence fetched her stethoscope and warmed it between her hands.  “Take off your jacket, dear, and untuck your shirt.”  Daud loomed in the doorway, arms crossed.  She pressed the stethoscope to the skin of Thomas’s back, and told him, “Breathe in, deep as you can.  Okay, let it out.”  She moved the stethoscope.  “Again.”  Moved it.  “One more time.”  His lungs sounded clear, without crackling on the exhale.  “It’s bronchitis.”

Daud relaxed visibly. 

“I told you,” Thomas said.  “I’ve had it before.”  Then he hacked again. 

“I wanted to be sure.  You might’ve had pneumonia.” 

“And it’s a good thing he did, you could’ve aspirated something in a coughing fit if he hadn’t,” Florence said.  “I’ll get you some cough syrup.  Take it regularly and you’ll be right as rain before long.”

Daud followed her down the hall.  “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.  Do you have many children?”  She started digging through a cabinet.

“He’s not mine.”

“I know _that_ , he doesn’t look a thing like you.”  Where was the stuff?  “How many?”

“Twelve teenagers.  Seven younger ones.  Nine adults, including myself,” he said quietly.

Florence’s eyebrows rose.  “And I take it you don’t have a doctor?” 

Daud shook his head.  She could see the wheels turning.  “Tynan’s leg is probably broken.  He can’t walk.” 

She turned to him, syrup in hand.  “I could make a house call in the morning.  Do you _have_ a house?” 

“Something like that,” he said, accepting the syrup.  “I’ll send one of my men.”

“And I’ll hold you to it.” 

Florence saw them out (saw them vanish, impossibly) and began to pack her things.


	2. Leonid—1826

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's not dead!

Someday, Daud was going to learn not to go after tailors. 

Especially ones involved with the Hatters. 

His mark had very nearly taken his ear off with a pair of shears in the short scuffle that came after Daud knocked over a cup full of buttons, so he ducked into an empty house to take a breather and hopefully stop feeling quite so rattled. 

A quick feel found his ear still very firmly attached, and he leaned against a wall, exhaling slowly.  He didn’t even want to think about the kind of grief Montgomery would’ve given him if he’d actually shown back up at home, permanently asymmetrical—more asymmetrical, rather.

But all was well that ended well, he’d be paid handsomely in two days’ time, and he wasn’t even bloody.  It was far from the worst job he’d ever done. 

He started going through his pockets, looking for the dried ox meat he’d stashed away earlier.  There was his pocket watch, some money, a roll of bandages—which were coated in _lint_.  He frowned and tucked them away, Montgomery could wash them later with all the rest.  He checked his bandolier, and just as his fingers closed around the waxed paper, he heard a thud. 

He blinked hard and looked up through the ceiling.  There was a person-like shape almost directly above him, standing stock still like they knew exactly how loud the noise had been and wished they could melt into the floorboards and disappear.  Just before the vision faded away, they started creeping away on light feet. 

Daud pulled out his knife and made for the stairs.  He had to give the mysterious person credit, they were very quiet when they weren’t dropping things. 

The house had two floors, and maybe an attic, he really hadn’t paid that much attention, with the kitchen and living room and such on the first floor, and the bedrooms lining a hallway on the second.  An unopened can of jellied eels lay abandoned right about where the person had been standing.  The bathroom was empty and had been for a long time, judging by the dust, but the room opposite it had seen some activity.  The wardrobe was sitting open, and several shirts lay on the floor beside it. 

Daud eased into the room to get a closer look.  The shirts themselves weren’t nearly so dirty as the rug, perhaps the person had looked for something to wear?  If so, they didn’t seem to have had much luck. 

His thoughts were interrupted with a gasp and the sound of a body hitting a wall.  He whipped around, knife raised, hand flaring blue, ready for the worst, only to meet the wide eyes of a young girl.  She was standing pressed against the door frame like that was the only thing keeping her halfway in the room, clinging to a little stuffed koala. 

Daud dropped his knife and sent it skidding off into a corner, very deliberately took off his wristbow, and sank into a crouch, holding out his empty hands.  “I won’t hurt you.” 

She didn’t quite look like she believed him.  Void, she was a tiny thing, short for her age if he was guessing right, and too thin.  She was grimy as well, her long, dark hair all in snarls.  “Who—who are you?”

 _Shit_.  He dangled there a moment, wondering if she’d recognize his name, but the longer he spent dithering, the more time she had to wonder why he wasn’t answering and leap to the worst possible conclusion.  “I’m Daud.”  Nothing.  She even seemed to relax a touch.  “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m looking for food.”  She loosened her grip on the koala and rubbed one of the ears, then wrinkled her nose.  “I found some jellied eels, but I can’t get the can open.”  Her stomach grumbled impressively. 

Still keeping his movements slow, Daud reached for the ox meat again.  The girl needed it more than he did.  “Here.” 

She reached out and plucked the waxed paper bundle from his hand, sat down cross-legged, and, once she unwrapped it, started scarfing the meat down faster than was entirely advisable. 

“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” Daud said.  “What’s your name?” 

She spoke around a mouthful.  “Leonid.” 

She didn’t even hesitate.  _She’s too trusting_ , Daud thought.  _She’s never going to make it on her own_.  “Leonid, where are your parents?” 

Her face crumpled and her chin started to wobble.  She wiped at one eye with the heel of her hand, hugging her koala tighter.  “They’re—they’re—I was upstairs, and I heard guns, but when I came down they were just _gone,_ and I don’t know what happened to them—”  And Daud tried to tell her he understood, she didn’t have to explain, but she continued on, whispering as though it was a terrible, shameful secret, “I just want my Mama.” 

Daud’s chest went tight, because he remembered what that felt like, being sick with wanting and _wanting_ for something he knew he could never have again.  Leonid took a gasping, shuddery breath and tried to hold back tears.  One escaped anyway. 

“Void, kid,” he breathed, pulling off his gloves.  “C’mere.” 

She sprang at him like she’d been waiting for permission and flung her arms around his middle, suddenly crying in earnest with great gut-wrenching sobs into his chest.  He hugged her tight, petting her hair and murmuring nonsense comfort, all _you’ll be alright, shh, I know.  I know._

Eventually she calmed down and yawned, leaning heavily against him. 

“Better?” 

“A little.  Do you have any more food?”  

Judging by the light slanting through the window, it would be getting toward dinner—which would hopefully be _edible_ , though Fergus was doing his damnedest to get himself kicked off the kitchen rotation.  He’d singlehandedly ruined four meals in a fortnight. 

Daud inhaled and thought that if Leonid just _agreed_ to what he was about to say, they would need to have a talk.  “Not with me.  But there’s plenty at home.” 

She went still—apparently her parents had talked to her about things like this.  “Oh.” 

“You could come with me, but you don’t have to.  It’s your decision.”

And then he waited.  He _knew_ he sounded exactly like the bastard that had abducted him, hated it intensely, but there were only so many ways to ask a kid to follow a stranger to his home, and all of them sounded bad.  He just had to wait, and hope, because she very clearly needed more food than she was getting, and he doubted she had the ability or desire to so much as fight her way out of a paper bag. 

And if she refused him—well, he’d come up with something. 

“I—is there anyone else there?” 

“Plenty.  You might like my friend Montgomery, and there’s several—Thomas and Fisher, and a few others—about your age.” 

She hummed thoughtfully.  “I…think I’ll go.  But I have to bring Beatrix,” she said, suddenly fierce, holding up the koala.  “I can’t leave her behind.” 

“Alright.”  He stuffed it into one of his pouches.  It was a tight fit, but that just meant it wouldn’t fall out in transit.  That would be awful.  “Do you have anything else you want to bring?” 

She shook her head.  He stood and led her over to the window, and when she was secure on his back, transversed to a rooftop.  She gasped when they landed the first time and huffed an incredulous laugh the second. 

They made it back just in time for dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leonid's always been a soft bean with no stranger danger instinct 
> 
> i hope you liked it :D


End file.
